


where to draw the line

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Boundaries, Fights, M/M, different styles of anger, how to solve a problem like george luz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “So,” Joe finally says, because it’s been too long without George saying anything at all, and the silence is starting to get painful. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on, or do I have to guess?”“Guess away, Joe,” is all George says. His tone is flat, clipped; he’s still staring out the car window as the dark streets zip by, arms crossed over his chest.“I’m all out of guesses.”
Relationships: George Luz/Joseph Toye
Kudos: 38





	where to draw the line

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Written for the Tumblr prompt: Luztoye / talking about each others' boundaries

“So,” Joe finally says, because it’s been too long without George saying anything at all, and the silence is starting to get painful. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on, or do I have to guess?” ****

“Guess away, Joe,” is all George says. His tone is flat, clipped; he’s still staring out the car window as the dark streets zip by, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m all out of guesses,” Joe counters. His eyes are trained on the road, just so he won’t have to look towards the passenger’s seat. The tension in the car is heavy enough without George’s glower reflected back at him.

 _Christ_ , for someone who never gets pissed off...

Even as the thought crosses his mind, though, Joe knows it isn’t true. George... gets annoyed plenty. He gets annoyed with people on a daily basis, and doesn’t keep his mouth shut about it. George’s annoyance is loud, sarcastic, biting, but somehow never cruel. His anger’s different. Maybe it really is that he just doesn’t get angry that much, or he doesn’t show it, but George Luz’s anger seethes underneath his skin. He bites it back, jaw tense and shoulders stiff. He gets quiet, his gaze flickers down and goes dark, and it’s impossible to tell exactly what he’s thinking. That’s a rare thing with Luz. He’s always glad to speak his mind, until he’s got nothing nice to say.

When Joe’s angry, people fucking hear about it. When George is angry, most people don’t even know it.

Unfortunately, Joe isn’t being given that option right now, because George’s fury is leaking out, and there’s nobody for it to spill onto but him.

“If some shit was bothering you that much, you shoulda said something. Then and there. I’d have ended it.”

“Yeah, bet you would’ve.”

“So why the hell didn’t you —“ Joe cuts himself off, forcing his own frustration back. Too harsh. Now now. “Why didn’t you say anything, George? How’m I supposed to know if there was something wrong with the restaurant, or the server, or the goddamn food —“

“Nothing was wrong with the food —“

“So why the hell are you angry?”

George exhales through his teeth and says nothing at all. Joe’s head pounds; he can feel a vein in his temple pulsing.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know something’s bothering you if you don’t tell me?” No, that’s not right — Joe always knows when something’s bothering George, because he can’t help paying attention to him, and knows him too damn well. When something’s bothering George, it’s obvious to anybody close enough to him. 

The what is the problem, and that what is a giant fucking wall between them now, building itself higher every minute.

“Was it —“ _Fuck_. Joe sighs. “Was it me? Did I fuck up somewhere?”

George does a double take. “What — the hell, Joe, _no_. Wasn’t you.”

“Well, then why don’t you just come out and say it? How the hell am I supposed to —“

“You just said you’d have —“

“But I don’t, so just tell me!”

“Oh, wow, the king of communicating his emotions is ordering me to open up? Holy _shit_ , I better jump on that!”

If Joe’s blood pressure gets any higher, he’s gonna crash the goddamn car. “You know,” he finally says through gritted teeth, “if you didn’t wanna come out with me tonight, you shoulda just said.”

A long moment of silence passes; the only sound is the engine humming steadily beneath them. Finally, George shifts in his seat, turning to look directly at Joe.

“You really think that’s why I’m pissed off right now?”

He doesn’t raise his voice — because George never raises his voice in arguments, just gets smaller and darker and more closed off, until he pulls away completely — but his words cut like a knife anyway. Joe’s fists tighten around the steering wheel. A few seconds is all it takes; then he’s pulling off the road, a succession of terse movements bringing the car to a stop in the parking lot of a closed store. There’s no one around. Above head, the streetlights illuminate rows of empty spaces, spilling out into the night. They couldn’t have found a more private place if they were trying, and Joe’s too pissed off to try anything right now, besides not raising his voice or punching the steering wheel.

When he finally turns, George is glaring back at him. That’s fuckin’ something, at least. He’s admitting he’s mad, instead of brooding about it like a kid who just got grounded.

“I’m listening,” is all Joe says.

George mutters a curse under his breath, shaking his head but not looking away. Even if he wanted to, Joe wouldn’t let him. His leg bounces restlessly, one hand playing with the seatbelt strap like he needs _something_ to do, while the other curls and uncurls in his lap. Another thing about George’s anger — it’s restless.

Finally, he manages to find the words. Rather than the usual Luz verbal burst pipe, these are deliberate, hand-picked from the simmering pot of his fury. “Maybe you’re okay with folks saying whatever the hell they like about you, Joe, but I’m not. I’m not.” His hand balls into a fist and stays that way. He’s not looking into Joe’s face now, but his gaze is like twin laser beams, dark and searing where it bores into Joe’s chest. “I dunno why you didn’t just reel around and punch both those guys in the mouth.”

It takes Joe a minute to connect the dots. The guys wrapping up their meal a few tables away from them, right after the waiter’d brought George a second drink. They were talking loudly — Joe had no interest in overhearing, but he couldn’t help it — and mentioned something about “crips”. Talking about… well, they’d been saying a lot of shit, none of it kind. Talking about disabled veterans right in Joe’s earshot — and for a second, yeah, he imagined what it’d feel like to send the bastards’ teeth flying.

But the moment passed quickly, leaving nothing in the two loudmouths’ wake but a sour taste in Joe’s mouth. Maybe their food didn’t taste as good as it should’ve… but not long after that, George started to shut down, and Joe was more worried about him.

“That’s it?” he can’t help blurting out. Then, at George’s fierce glower: “Wait a minute. They didn’t say shit about you. _You_ got all your limbs.”

“They were talking about _you_ , Joe. Or guys like you.” George’s voice is low and fierce, harder than Joe’s ever heard it. “Thought they were real smartasses. I shoulda been the one who knocked their —“

“Whoa!” That’s not like George at all. Even in his darkest moods, he’s never violent. “The fuck does it matter?”

“Why doesn’t it matter to _you?”_

Something in his voice is desperate. One look at his face, at the way the white of his eyes are showing, and Joe knows this goes deeper than a few asshole remarks in a restaurant.

With the utmost care, he reaches over, settling his hand atop George’s tense fist. “What does it matter to me,” he says, “what a few fuckers in polo shirts think of my leg? They don’t have respect for the guys who found for their right to drink martinis at fuckin’ golf tournaments, that’s their problem. I’m not gonna pick a fight in the middle of a nice restaurant, on a date with _you_ —“ He gives George’s hand a squeeze. “Cause’a some asshole strangers. They don’t matter to me. This here — right now? This life, my job, you? _That’s_ what matters. It ain’t worth jeopardizing nothing.”

George stares at him. In the dim light, his eyes are darker than Joe’s ever seen them, more intense.

“So you can just… swallow your pride like that?”

“Ain’t like you can’t.” Plenty of people have run their mouths off in front of George before, and he’s just smiled through it. If George didn’t take jackasses with grace, Cobb wouldn't have any teeth left in his mouth. 

“But that’s different, Joe! It’s different when it’s me. People wanna say shit about me, fine, see if I give ‘em the time of day. But you…” His fingers twine through Joe’s and tighten, enough to crack the joints and push the bones together. Instead of wincing, Joe squeezes back. “When I hear people say shit about you, I don’t wanna take it. You don’t deserve that.”

“And there’s plenty you don’t deserve, too. Like working long hours at that goddamn office, with Sobel breathing down your neck. You don’t think I don’t wanna punch the guy every time you come home with a new story to tell?” Joe exhales through his nose. “But it’s your fight, Georgie. When you fight it’s up to you. If you need me there, I’ve got your back… but it ain’t your responsibility to fight for anyone else.”

“But—“

“If they’re helpless, sure. Do I look helpless to you?”

Joe crooks a brow. George huffs a laugh, ducking his head as if unwilling to give Joe the satisfaction of it.

“If someone can fight their own battle and decides not to, it’s their choice.”

“And I get it, Joe. Really.” George’s grip has loosened now; he squeezes Joe like a reassurance, not a lifeline, and it’s a relief to see most of the fury drained from his eyes. The last, most important thing Joe knows about George’s anger: it never lasts long. “But you deserve to have someone fight for you.”

“Fight _with_ me. Not for me.” Joe’s free hand comes up, thumb brushing along George’s stubbled jaw. Finally, a hint of a smile —- and with that, the last of the tension balled up in Joe’s chest unravels, falling away.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll always let you take the first punch.”

“Best part of any fight,” Joe says, and George full-on grins at him. Not his usual beam, by any means, but… it’s a start.

“Maybe,” Joe broaches, massaging gently along George’s cheekbone, “we can talk things through more often. Things like this.” It feels like an important conversation to have had, especially because he’s come out of it understanding George a lot better. “I don’t wanna see you get punched defending my damn honor.”

“Nah,” George replies, leaning into his touch. “I'll never let anybody ruin this pretty face for you.”

Joe, who firmly believes broken noses give a face character, still wouldn’t have _George’s_ face any other way. His gentle touch wanders to George’s temple, stroking back the stray hairs there; for a moment, he considers the kind of man it takes to fight for someone else quicker than you’d ever fight for yourself. He already knew he was in love with George Luz… but damn, if he doesn’t like to be proven right.

“Don’t go stoning me again,” he mutters. George’s eyes, chocolate-soft and tender, gleam are him.

“Don’t let me stay pissed for too long, and we’ll call it even.”


End file.
